


And They Say Romance is Dead

by static_abyss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Declarations Of Love, HP Fluff Fest 2020, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26006041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: Harry is in love with Draco Malfoy. This is, quite possible, the worst thing that could have ever happened to him. Not because he doesn't want to love Draco but because now that Harry knows, he doesn't know how he's supposed to tell him.Or, five times Harry tried to tell Draco he loved him and one time he succeeded.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 53
Kudos: 343
Collections: HP Fluff Fest 2020





	And They Say Romance is Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trishjames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trishjames/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [Leah](https://pineau-noir.tumblr.com) for putting up with my messy outlines and for encouraging me while I wrote this fic. I appreciate you and everything you do. Thank you to the mods for running this fest. And to trishjames, I am forever grateful that we met and I hope this fic brings you at least a little bit of joy ♥️

**I. _the fastest way to melt chocolate mousse is to give it a squeeze_**

Dinner at The Pheasant is Ron's idea because he asked Hermione to marry him at the same place and he thinks it's romantic. 

Inside, there are strings of white fairy lights hanging around the edges of the room, small bulbs dancing around the tables so that there's enough light for everyone to see what they're doing. There's a string quartet on a small black velvet-covered dais at the back of the restaurant. The shine of the velvet matches the sleek floor tiles and the exposed dark red brick walls. The bar counter is a deep burgundy, polished to a perfect shine. Every few rounds of drinks, the bartender waves his wand and the surface gleams as though new.

Draco takes one look at the place and turns to Harry with a raised eyebrow. "Quite a different setup than usual tonight," he says.

Harry can see the suspicion in Draco's eyes, the way he starts looking around the room for traps, or worse, surprises. He can almost see the mental list Draco must be making as he goes through all the important dates he might have missed. Harry lets him stew as the host takes their cloaks and leads them to a table. All around them, Harry can hear the usual hushed whispers as he and Draco make their way down the aisle of tables, the floating bulbs moving out of their way as they go.

He can already see tomorrow's Prophet headline, a side shot of him and Draco at their table, leaning forward to talk to each other. Draco in his charcoal trousers and blazer, his black shirt buttoned to the top underneath. He's wearing a silver tie so he looks extra put together, though Harry had been counting on it when he'd asked Draco out today. He, himself, had put in a little extra effort, had worn his dark jeans and a deep green shirt that Hermione had given him on his last birthday. Everything tailored so that it looks expensive.

"A little trick I picked up from my mother," Draco had told Harry the first time they'd gone shopping together.

The Prophet photos at that time had been particularly eye-opening. Though the Prophet had only nice things to say about Harry's casual going-out clothes, he'd been able to see the difference between how he and Draco dressed immediately. And though Harry had thought he'd hate the extra effort needed to get everything hemmed and cut, he'd done it anyway because he'd felt like it was worth it to put in the extra effort. He hadn't hated it in the end, particularly because Draco had sat with him and eyed him up and down until the witch at the shop had shooed him away.

Ever since then, the Prophet photos had been much more pleasing to the eye and Harry had stopped feeling like a slob. 

"Ah, yes," Ron had said the first time. "Now you and Malfoy can be posh prats together."

But Ron had laughed when he'd said it, and he hadn't hesitated when Harry had asked him to help him pick out something for tonight. That his look for tonight had been Ron's idea still makes Harry want to laugh. But he's seen the appreciative glances from Draco and he makes a mental note to send Ron flowers. 

They look good together is what it means, mismatched but complimenting heights, Harry in hues of brown and black, Draco, blond and grey-eyed. Both of them polished and pristine, recognisable for contrasting reasons that they've done their best to leave behind. They help each other, a nice back and forth that's easy and comforting. 

The date is to recognise that, after a day of Harry sitting through meetings with Kingsley, wanting to scream himself hoarse as everyone went back and forth on how to handle the Dementors. He, Hermione, and Ron had voted with Kinglsey to reject the reintroduction of Dementors in Azkaban. Though the influx of prisoners and the loss of staff after the war made it hard, the three of them had agreed that it'd be better to keep guards and press forward with the new Auror recruits. Logically, their plan made sense but they'd gotten push back from more conservative members of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. The reason being that there was not enough staff to spare for guard duty in Azkaban.

Kingsley had conceded the point as due to those same shortages, Draco had been present for the meeting, acting as the Secretary for the Head of Intoxicating Substances. Harry's still not sure why that particular department had been present for talks about Dementors. But it had meant that just as he was about to lose his mind, he'd looked across the room and Draco had rolled his eyes and thrown his head back in exasperation. Just like that, the meeting from hell had been just a tad more bearable. 

They'd stayed an hour after the workday had ended. And Kingsley still hadn't gotten the votes he needed to permanently remove Dementors from the Ministry's List of Acceptable Recruitable Creatures. Training the new Auror recruits for guarding Azkaban was still pending, and no one had come to any agreement over who'd get to keep rotating staff like Draco. There are a couple of people Hermione's going to talk to, some people Harry needs to make nice with, and if they're all lucky, things will be resolved a month from now. Though Harry knows that's being optimistic. He gives it closer to six months with the back and forth between Departments and the constant push and pull of who gets what staff and why.

Draco, like other administrative staff, had been shuffled from department to department until he'd been given a semi-permanent post with the Department of Intoxicating Substances. That particular department had expanded considerably after the war, in part due to the expansion of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. And though Harry is secretly proud of all the things Fred and George have accomplished in such a short amount of time, he does wish they'd take a break so that Draco can leave work early once in a while.

All that's to say that Harry's not overlooking the miracle that's their schedules matching up and making this date night possible. Harry intends to use the atmosphere of the place and the overeagerness of the waitstaff to his full advantage. See, Harry James Potter—Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor, six years running, Darling of the Ministry, and Future Head Auror—has a plan.

It involves, among other things, Draco Malfoy, the poshest restaurant in wizarding Britain, a chocolate and raspberry mousse cake, and a declaration of love stencilled over the top in powdered sugar. But, Harry supposes, that might be getting ahead of himself.

*

Two weeks ago, on the 6th of September, Harry and Draco had been twenty-six and bickering over the best way to drink tea. The afternoon sun had been setting behind Harry's flat in London, faint slivers of orange light slipping through the buildings and into the room. They'd been standing by the kitchen counter, the windows at Draco's back so that he'd seemed dipped in sunlight. 

Harry had been drinking black tea with milk and sugar and Draco had jasmine green tea, no sugar, no milk. Harry had watched him, had pressed a little harder about steeped leaves and how unfortunate Draco's choices were. Draco had rolled his eyes and in the fading afternoon light, he'd seemed heartbreakingly beautiful.

At any other time, when they were in the presence of strangers, Draco held himself stiffly, back ramrod straight, eyes ahead, and chin pointed up. He'd become a blank mask of rich pureblood upbringing, clipped words, and razor-sharp accent. But when he was with Pansy or Blaise, or with Harry in his flat, all the sharp pointy edges melted away. The Draco that had stood in Harry's flat in the fading light had been the same one who'd said yes when Harry had finally plucked up the courage to ask him out. 

They'd been dating something like three months, fitting dates wherever they could, sometimes staying over at either Harry's or Draco's just to get time in. Despite their busy schedules and all the hundreds of things still requiring Harry's attention every day, it'd been so easy to meld his and Draco's lives together. 

He hadn't expected the way everything had fallen into place, how fast it had become second nature to have Draco in his home, in his life. To see him laughing with Hermione or discussing Ministry bureaucracy with Ron, both of them just a tad too gleeful as they discussed how best to hack away at the incompetency at the Ministry. To have Draco drinking tea from Harry's chipped teacups, putting on the kettle, waving his wand so the dishes washed themselves. 

It had seemed somehow important that Harry let Draco know just how much his presence meant to him. To show him or have some way to make it mean more than the casual, "come by mine," and "stay the night." He'd wanted to tell Draco about the ache in Harry's chest that had made it just a little harder to breathe. How Draco's eyes in the sunlight had seemed to look into Harry, how the easy way Draco had taken Harry's cup and kissed him on his way to the sink had sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

It had come to him later, when they were sitting on the living room sofa. It had occurred to Harry that there was a word for what he'd been feeling. For the way any news from Draco was enough to make Harry smile, how Draco's presence immediately brightened any room. How tedious meetings were worth it if Harry got to see Draco afterwards, how much fun it had been to drink tea and learn all the little intimate details of Draco's likes and dislikes. How fortunate Harry felt whenever Draco shared something new.

He'd been thinking about it for days by the 6th of September, when it had all sboiled down to a moment of silence as Draco had shut off the TV and had made to stand up. Harry had watched him and the quiet throughout the flat had seemed to highlight Draco standing in front of the sofa. It had felt like contentment at first, that deep sense of everything being right in the world that Harry had felt for the first time after the war. There had been a moment where Harry had inhaled and it had seemed as though everything within him had centred around Draco for a second. 

Then, the world had gone out of tilt as Harry had realised that he was in love with Draco Malfoy. 

*

One of the things Harry's learned about Draco is that, much like Harry, he enjoys a good chocolate dessert every now and then. That night in late September, Harry's banking on it being close to the weekend and the fact that they haven't had a date in a little over three weeks. It's easy to convince Draco to get the mousse cake, to say that it's because they haven't had time to go out. 

"It's just dessert," Harry says. "What could it hurt?"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Are you forgetting lunch with my mother last week? Nothing is ever just dessert."

"Yeah, well, it's not my fault you never taught me what fork to use for what course," Harry says. "I did wear the suit like you asked. I feel like that alone should've been enough."

"Just because everything I say with regards to mannerisms and familial expectations goes right through you, doesn't mean that I didn't try," Draco says, but he's smiling as he takes Harry's hand. "Is that what this is then? An apology for the fiasco that was lunch with my mother?" 

Harry tries not to smile. "Using the coffee spoon for dessert hardly qualifies as a fiasco."

"It was a mille-feuille, Harry," Draco says. "Pansy was appalled and Mother had very strong words with me afterwards."

"Oh?" Harry asks. 

He can see Draco biting back a smile as the bulbs around them close in, setting their table in an intimate yellowish glow. It's easy to forget the people around them as they look at each other, warmth settling in Harry's chest. He could sit for hours pretending he doesn't understand the intricacies of French pastries while Draco pretends he cares. 

"We should go back to yours," Draco says in that low, rumbling tone that makes Harry lean forward. 

He could kiss him right there in the posh restaurant with its floating bulbs of light and its string quartet. He almost does it, lost in the moment as he reaches across the table for Draco's hand. 

Then, Harry remembers dessert. 

"Wait," he says. "What about the chocolate mousse cake?"

Draco gives Harry a silent unimpressed look. "Are you really choosing dessert over sex?"

Well, Harry thinks, watching the way Draco eyes him up and down, when Draco puts it that way, there's really only one choice.

-

The waitress wraps up the mousse cake and hands it to Harry so gently, he knows she's put Draco's piece in there. 

"Good luck," she mouths as she hands over the cardboard box with a little red bow on top. 

Harry thanks her and heads out to the front where Draco's already picked up their cloaks. Outside, they get ambushed by a group of reporters who've been waiting for them to come out of the restaurant, and Draco takes Harry's arm a little too hard as they Apparate. As they're turning, Harry feels the little box slipping so he grabs it tighter, feels the cardboard give under his fingers. He spares a thought for the little mousse cake with its white powdered sugar spelling out, "I ♥ you."

They get to Harry's flat and Draco's already throwing their cloaks onto the living room sofa. He reaches out to take the cake box from Harry and tosses that onto the coffee table.

"Wait," Harry says, watching the little box bounce once before coming to a stop, "the cake."

"Shut up," Draco says, throwing an arm around Harry to pull him into a kiss. 

Harry allows it for a moment, lost in the way Draco's pushing against him, small insistent steps forward as though he wants to get as close to Harry as possible. He's warm and alive under Harry's hands and there's nothing that Harry wants more than to lay Draco out on his bed and get lost in the way he feels. But he had a plan—wonderfully prepped, guaranteed to work—and he can't help but push once more. 

"Draco," Harry says, taking a step back. "We really should at least make sure the cakes made it home all right."

Draco pulls away, frowns. "What's happening here?"

"Just open the damn box," Harry says. 

Draco gives him an odd look but does as he's told. Harry watches him, the careful, delicate way Draco has of untying knots, how he folds the ribbon and sets it on the table. He eases the flaps away from the box and Harry watches his face, waits for the moment Draco reads the message. But Draco looks down and instead of the surprise Harry expects, he looks pensive. 

He's too quiet. 

"Uh, Draco," Harry says. "Are you...is everything okay?"

Draco looks up slowly, something mischievous in his eyes. He tilts the box to show Harry the broken mass of chocolate mousse, raspberries, and white sugar. 

"Cake's ruined," he says, "But I can think of fun things we can do with it anyway."

And, okay, it's not exactly what Harry had in mind but he can't really complain, later, when he and Draco are lying in bed and he can still taste chocolate and berries on his tongue.

**II. _music and poetry are just sounds to someone who can't hear the rhythm_**

Harry wakes up on Sunday to the smell of bacon coming from his kitchen. The sun is just starting to rise and the light gets lost in between the London flats. Harry can see the patch of blue sky that promises a good morning but will probably be clouds and rain by midday. He lets himself enjoy waking up a moment longer, the quiet of his bedroom, and that sense of rightness that settles in his chest at knowing that Draco's downstairs. 

When he goes down, Draco's standing by the stove near the window, his back to Harry. This side of the flat has a partial view out to a small park and Harry watches from the doorway as the light hits Draco. It brings out the golden hue to Draco's hair, bright and warm. 

"Hey," Harry says, "don't move, I'll be right back."

He steps out of the kitchen and heads back to the bedroom. He pulls out the small piece of parchment from his bedside drawer. He'd talked to Ginny a few days ago and had asked, as vaguely as he could, whether she could help him. Her response had been the little piece of parchment.

It has to be worth a shot, Harry thinks as he heads back to the kitchen. Draco's still standing by the stove, stirring something Harry can't see. He takes a moment to enjoy the way Draco knows where to find what he's looking for, how he fits in Harry's kitchen, in his flat.

"Hey," Harry says again. "I'm going to do something and I need you to promise not to turn around or say anything until I'm done."

Draco nods and does as Harry asks. 

"I wrote you a poem," Harry says, knowing that if he stops, he's going to start feeling the nerves and it's important that he gets this right. "Actually, I may have stolen it from Ginny. She wrote me something similar in Second Year. I asked and she said it was all right for me to use it. Oh, I also may have told Ginny...well, that's not important. The point is, I'd like to read you a poem and then tell you something so, just stand there for a bit."

Draco says nothing but he stops moving and Harry remembers their Eighth Year, how many times he'd run into Draco standing at the end of hallways or in abandoned classrooms. How he had a tendency to stare at nothing when he was thinking. How very familiar every one of Draco's quirks is to Harry after all these years. How easy it had been to finally ask Draco out almost four months ago when they'd both been ready. 

"Right, so my poetry is limited to what I learned from Ginny, but here goes," Harry says, clearing his throat as he pulls out the small piece of parchment. "Your eyes are as grey as Earl Grey tea / Your hair is as light as a chickpea / I wish you were mine, you're really divine / the one man who I want to love me."

Harry inhales and glances at that back of Draco's head. Draco's still standing by the stove and there must be something in the air because Harry can't take his eyes off him. He stops thinking about the poem and imagines walking over and pulling Draco into a hug, kissing the back of his neck, burying his face in Draco's shoulders. They don't need to have breakfast yet. There are so many things they could do instead. 

The moment stretches as Harry stands by the kitchen doorway, then it stretches some more as Harry waits for Draco's reaction. 

"Draco?" Harry asks.

Draco says nothing and continues stirring what's in front of him. 

Harry frowns. "Draco?" he asks, stepping into the kitchen. "Uh, what did you think of the poem?"

Draco still says nothing. 

Harry's starting to worry as he moves closer. "I can always rewrite it," he says. "I'm not married to 'chickpea.' There's really very little that's both light and rhymes with 'tea.' But it's only the first draft. Ginny laughed at me when I read it to her but what does she know? Draco?"

Harry reaches out to touch Draco's shoulder and is surprised when Draco startles. He turns, his grey eyes wide as he looks at Harry. 

"Oh, Harry," he says.

"Yeah," Harry says. "It's me."

"What?" Draco asks. "Oh, wait."

Harry watches as Draco reaches up and tugs out a pair of earbuds. The sharp stab of disappointment is almost enough to mask Harry's surprise. He can hear the pop music blasting from the headphones and he winces in sympathy for Draco's ears.

"Why is it so loud?" he asks, trying his best to move past his second failed attempt at declaring his love to Draco.

Draco shrugs. "Hermione didn't teach me how to lower the volume," he says. 

"The volume from what?" Harry asks.

Draco pulls out a small blue rectangle with a white circle off-centre. There are four buttons on the white circle and one in the middle. Harry recognises the little thing as Hermione's iPod Shuffle. Her parents had gotten it for her last Christmas and she'd been carrying it around ever since. 

"How did you get Hermione to lend you that?" Harry asks, momentarily forgetting the last few minutes. 

"I saw her with it, was curious, and asked her. She was happy to lend it to me," Draco says.

Harry stretches his hand out and Draco hands him the iPod Shuffle. It's lighter than Harry expected. He examines it all over for an "off" button and can't find one. 

"So you really couldn't hear what I was saying?" Harry asks, turning the iPod Shuffle in his hands. 

"I didn't," Draco says, frowning. "Was it something important?"

Harry finds the "volume" button and turns down the sound until he can't hear the music coming from the earbuds anymore. He hands the Shuffle back to Draco, watches how Draco tucks it away as though afraid he'll damage it. When Draco looks at him, Harry's smiling, watching the morning sun, and breathing in the smells of cooking bacon.

"Nothing important," he says, leaning forward to give Draco a quick kiss. "What's for breakfast?"

**III. _declarations of love should come with choking hazard warnings_**

They haven't had a moment to themselves since the meeting with Kinglsey and the other Department Heads, a week since the restaurant. A week since Draco had laid Harry out in bed and licked chocolate and raspberries off him. He'd fucked Harry nice and slow and it had been worth the ruined attempt at telling Draco he loved him. 

That plan had been too elaborate, Harry thinks now, as he moves against Draco, all the hard planes of his body pressing up against Harry's front. Draco's cock is hard between them and with every other push of Harry's hips, he can feel the smooth velvet slide of it. 

"Go slow," Draco says against Harry's ear.

His hands are hard on Harry's back, his legs wrapped around Harry's thighs. He feels good, warm and welcoming, the harsh sounds of his breaths letting Harry know that he's enjoying the slow drag of it. Outside, the day is cool, their open window blowing in the smells of early fall rain. September is a good month because it means that there's a lull in departmental investigations into Improper Use of Magic as students head back to Hogwarts. It means that Draco's here with Harry, asking him to go slower, to really make him feel it. 

Harry gets his knees under him and lifts Draco's hips higher, changes the angle so that the next time he pushes in, Draco lets out a broken off groan. Draco feels good, their faces close to each other as they move, Draco's hair curling with sweat, his grey eyes half-lidded as he stares at something past Harry's shoulder. He's doing his best to focus because Harry had asked, had whispered, "I want you to watch me." But Harry can see his concentration slipping, the way it does when they get really into it. When Draco lets loose a little and asks Harry for things, listens when Harry moves him around, arranges him how he wants him. So easily compliant, so willing to please. 

That he trusts Harry to see him this way, to take care of him and guide him is almost too much. It makes Harry want to hold him close, to give him whatever he wants, in whatever way Draco wants it. Makes it so that it's a little hard to think as Harry presses in slowly, really letting Draco feel all of him, that heavy slide of their bodies. He feels Draco shiver beneath him and Harry buries his face in Draco's neck. He smells like detergent and the thick heavy scent of his cologne. Good everywhere he's touching Harry, murmuring encouragements as Harry moves, broken off, "please, need to feel you."

Harry loves the way Draco's fingers dig into his back, the low whine in his throat as Harry moves back and changes the angle again. He loves the way Draco throws his head back, the way he can't seem to get a full breath as Harry speeds up, how he's doing his best to keep his eyes on Harry, how Draco's hands twist in the sheets. 

He loves Draco.

Harry thinks about dinner and how sometimes gestures don't matter more than words, how it would be so easy to say it now, something to fill the spaces in between them. Draco catches Harry's eyes and they stare at each other, Harry overwhelmed for a moment at the sharply focused look in Draco's eyes. 

"Come here," Draco says.

Harry goes, close enough that Draco can put his hands in Harry's hair, but with enough space between them that Harry can still see Draco laid out beneath him. Harry wants to touch him everywhere, press into him until his presence in Draco's life is undeniable. 

_This is it_ , Harry thinks as he looks down at Draco. 

He's beautiful, shivering underneath Harry, his eyes bright and unfocused. The sounds he's making, small choked off groans as Harry moves in him, against him. Their breaths, loud in the otherwise silent room. Harry loves him, every bit of him, from the way Draco bites his lip to keep quiet as though he's afraid that someone's going to hear them in the empty flat. To the way Draco's hands feel against Harry's hair, how he pulls him down so that they're kissing.

Draco throws an arm around Harry's shoulders and pulls him closer, kisses him, hot and eager. He's trembling and willing, and Harry can feel that tightness in his chest, an ache that rests somewhere behind his sternum. He doesn't know how he could he ever begin to explain the way the world narrows down for a moment on the curve of Draco's mouth, on his face and all the changing expressions.

Harry wants him and it feels foolish to admit it to himself when he has Draco in his arms, in the quiet of the flat. But Harry wants him, wants to feel him everywhere. He pushes deeper, harder, wanting to bury what he feels in the sounds they make. It's horrible and wonderful at the same time and as they move together, Harry thinks Draco's never looked better. Never felt as good as he does, then, in Harry's arms. 

They're looking at each other, the moment heavy. There's something about the closeness and the absence of the usual city noise that makes everything hotter and more intimate. Draco shifts as Harry moves and they both freeze as Draco shakes and Harry tries not to come. 

This is it, right there, Harry thinks. 

He wants to tell Draco how much he wants him, how much he needs him. How Harry feels a sort of desperate burn, something hidden so deep in Harry's chest that it will burn him alive if he doesn't give it room. Harry inhales, ready to tell Draco how much he loves him, how good he feels, how everything is perfect and warm. 

He opens his mouth to say it, forms the first syllable as Draco pulls him down closer. 

Draco's mouth is hot against Harry's ear as he says, low and wanting, "I want you to choke me."

And it's the mousse cake all over again as Harry gets lost in the overwhelming heat, in the way Draco twists under Harry as Harry gets his hand around Draco's throat, presses down just enough for Draco to feel it. It's so much easier to just focus on what they're doing, on that low whine in Draco's throat, how he gasps beneath Harry's hand and comes with Harry's name on his lips. 

It is, after all, in poor taste to declare his love for Draco when he's asking Harry to choke him.

**IV. _love, actually, is as easy as falling asleep_**

Harry's sure he's seen _Love, Actually_ about five times over the course of his almost four-month relationship with Draco. 

It's, quite predictably, all Ron's fault. Hermione had shown Ron the movie so he'd shown it to Harry. Then Draco had come over in the middle of the movie and the three of them had watched, until Draco had asked that they restart it. And Ron, being the best friend Harry's ever had, had restarted the movie and had settled back down on Harry's sofa to watch. 

At some point the following week, Harry and Draco had been bored and the DVD had still been on Harry's coffee table, so they'd watched it again. That had turned into a constant on-and-off rewatch of the film for the first month they'd been dating. After, there had been two beautiful months free from _Love, Actually_ , before September hit, and Draco had forgotten the name of the best man who declares his love for his best friend's wife.

"We shouldn't be engaging in such trite and tired filmography," Draco says, as he scans through the titles on Harry's bookcase. "But I suppose, if we must watch something, it's better we go with the enemy we already know."

Harry tries not to laugh as he nods solemnly. He knows Draco enjoys the movie more than he lets on, not only because of the film itself, but because it'd become a sort of tradition between the two of them. On weekends when work had been particularly demanding, they'd curl up on Harry's sofa, tucked under a blanket and just let the sounds of holiday cheer wash over them. Sometimes, Harry knows, they hadn't even paid attention to the movie. What had mattered was the calm that had swept through the flat as the movie had played in the background, something comforting that let them know things would be okay in the end. With work the way it was recently, a Friday night curled up with Draco on the sofa sounded good to Harry. 

They still hadn't come up with a satisfying solution to the lack of staff in Azkaban. On top of that, the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures had released a series of educational memos. The memos had been charmed to start yelling their contents if they weren't opened after three minutes. There had been a small quiz at the end that required three correct answers in order to get the blasted things to disappear. That had come after Harry had jokingly suggested they fill the water around Azkaban with Giant Squids. 

Harry is still not sure he believes Hermione's innocence with regards to the quiz. But the memos, on top of a shitty week, mean that all Harry wants to do now is listen to Christmas carols and the way Hugh Grant stammers his way, endearingly, through his declaration of love. Though, if Harry's honest, there are parts of the movie that leave a lot to be desired. 

"I just don't understand why this man thinks declaring his love to his best friend's wife was a good idea," Harry says, halfway through the movie.

"I'm assuming it's supposed to be romantic," Draco says, sounding bored.

Harry has his hands over the back of the couch and Draco's tucked into his side. They'd started on separate ends of the couch, with Draco declaring that he needed to stretch out. But after the first fifteen minutes of the movie, Draco had moved to the middle of the couch. Harry had pretended he hadn't noticed, and by the time they'd hit the thirty-minute mark, Draco had stopped pretending he wasn't looking for a cuddle. 

They keep watching the movie but Harry gets stuck on what Draco said. He tries to pay attention but he can't keep the "it's supposed to be romantic" away from his thoughts. He imagines the various different ways he's planned to tell Draco he loves him. When he'd first thought about how he'd do it, Harry had gone from plans involving fireworks down to simply writing it on Draco's favourite dessert. Though considering how much of a failure that had been, Harry's not sure he can call that plan simple. 

Finally, when Draco yawns, Harry says, "So, would you want a romantic gesture?"

Draco yawns again and pulls away from Harry. "Merlin, no," he says, leaning against the opposite arm of the sofa and rearranging the blanket. "Can you imagine?"

"Hm," Harry says, turning back to the film, "I suppose not."

He's quiet for a moment, the silence in the flat a little more pointed. He doesn't mean for the moment to get awkward but there's nothing Harry can do about it. He's not going to confess to Draco that he doesn't know how to tell him he loves him. That would involve explaining why and Harry's done with looking back at things that he can't change. 

Instead, he settles down onto the sofa, intending to watch the movie through to its end, when he feels Draco nudging him with his foot. 

"What?" Harry asks, turning to Draco. "I was in the middle of ogling Hugh Grant." 

Draco turns to the screen almost lazily, his eyes trailing over Hugh Grant in his Prime Minister's office. Draco tilts his head and makes a pensive sound. 

"I suppose, if you like dark-haired men," he says. 

Harry does his best to fight back his laugh. "Oh? And I suppose you've never been attracted to any dark-haired men in your life."

Draco turns to Harry, something warm in his expression. "Never," he says, voice low. 

The light from their one lamp casts shadows on half of Draco's face and lends a heaviness to his words, something tangible, almost as though Harry can feel them down his back. 

"We could stop the movie," Harry says.

"No, I don't think so," Draco says, grinning as he leans back on the arm of the sofa. "I'd like to watch."

Harry raises an eyebrow and Draco shrugs. He puts his hands behind his head and then, just as Harry's turning back to the film, Draco nudges him again.

"Do you want romantic gestures?" Draco asks. 

Harry frowns, looking back at the screen where people are wrapping Christmas gifts. He thinks of Christmas at The Burrow, of mornings with Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room. The Weasleys and Hermione have always been home, have always brought comfort and safety. They're a big part of who Harry is and he can't imagine his life without them. But these days, when he thinks of home, he always thinks of Draco too.

It matters to Harry that those feelings be acknowledged, that Draco knows what he means in Harry's life and how much he matters. There were so very few things Harry had wanted before Hogwarts, before the War, and even after to some extent. It's important for Harry to acknowledge what he has now because he's done so well these past few years, has managed to have this, Draco in his flat, in his living room.

In what, Harry hopes, will one day become their home.

He turns back to Draco and answers as honestly as he can. "I dunno," he says. "I reckon it might be nice to be appreciated."

"I'll keep that in mind," Draco says and when Harry turns to him again, he's smiling. 

Harry looks at him long enough to acknowledge the warmth spreading through his chest at knowing that Draco is in his home and his life. The way Harry can feel the work week getting farther from his mind as he sits there with Draco. Then, he focuses back on the screen and watches Mark gather his things to declare his love for Juliet. 

He thinks of the implications of taking a chance even when one is sure the outcome will be negative. Quite frankly, Harry thinks, watching the film, he could do much better than Mark. And he wouldn't be declaring his love to someone unavailable. He wouldn't even be declaring his love to someone who doesn't love him back, because Harry knows that his feelings are returned. He knows what it means that Draco's made a home on Harry's sofa, that he has clothing in Harry's closet, that one look across a boring Ministry meeting and everything suddenly seems so much better.

He knows what answer he's going to get and so he decides that he might as well go for it. After all, it's not like Draco expects a grand romantic gesture. 

"So," Harry says, starting to turn towards Draco on the sofa. 

He thinks better of it, knows that the pounding in his chest is just nerves, that there's nothing to worry about here. But just because he knows these things logically doesn't mean that Harry can stop the way it's harder to breathe all of a sudden. He's not prepared but he knows what he wants to say, knows that it's nothing at all like Mark from _Love, Actually_. 

"I'm just going to do this looking at the TV, if you don't mind," he says, doesn't wait for Draco to stop him. "I've been trying to tell you all month, it feels like, and now that I know you don't expect a million roses, it's easier to just come out and say it."

He inhales, lets himself really feel the way his heart is thumping. He thinks of mornings with Draco, of the way Draco had laughed at The Pheasant, how everyone in any room always has eyes for both of them, for how they fit together. Harry likes knowing that he and Draco make a good match, that they complement each other, because it means that he and Draco fit. And for a long time, Harry hadn't thought that was possible. 

He thinks of nights alone in this flat as he watches Mark knocking on Juliet's door. He'd been alone for a long time so he knows how to recognize the feeling of belonging. He knows that the certainty that Draco will be there in the morning is good and special and important.

"I didn't have a home before Hogwarts," Harry says, looking at Juliet opening the door on-screen. "I have a home now and I know what that feels like and I wanted to let you know that I feel that with you. More than that. When we're together, it makes me want to do crazy things like bake you cakes and write 'I love you' in icing. I want to do what Mark's doing except, of course, you're not in a committed relationship. But I get it? The need to make it a grand gesture and to just let you know that I like you so much in the mornings."

Harry takes a deep breath and waits, eyes on the movie. He watches Mark go through his poster board signs, listens to Draco's quiet breathing. He has to get through this before he can look at Draco because he knows once he does, there's no way Harry's going to finish his speech. 

"You look really good in the sunlight. I don't know what it is about you and the sun and the way it just makes you look like you're glowing, even though we both know if you spend too long in the sun, you'll burn. As clichéd as it sounds, when Bartholomew from your department drones on and on and you look at me, I don't care anymore. I like that you're annoying about the types of clothes you wear and that you like it when I try. And I promise I try because I like how we look together and how the Prophet can't figure out whether they love us or hate us together. I like who we are and I like you."

Harry stops again and lets his head fall into his hands. He can feel that same warmth spreading through his chest, something pleasant and right. He runs his hands through his hair, thinks of Sunday mornings and Draco in bed. He imagines all the nights they've had together, the way they hold hands like it's second nature now. 

"Draco," Harry says, turning to look at him, finally. "I lov—"

He breaks off as he gets a good look at Draco, resting against the arm of the sofa. He has his arms tucked behind his head, his face towards the TV, and he's fast asleep.

"Oh," Harry says, inhaling against the sudden pressure in his chest. 

He can't help the smile that breaks out across his face as he stands to rearrange the blanket over Draco. He tucks the ends over him and leans down to press a quick kiss to Draco's forehead. He'll wake him later, when Draco's rested a bit and they can head to bed for the night. 

For now, Harry just picks up the TV remote and restarts the movie. 

**V. _the internet is a great source of entertainment and little usable advice_**

The problem with owning Muggle technology and refusing to completely shut himself off from Muggle current events is that Draco spends a lot of his time at Harry's asking how everything works. Harry, in turn, spends a lot of the same time annoyed at the nonstop barrage of questions that make less sense the more Harry explains. The Internet is the biggest source of mystery and, therefore, what Draco asks about most often. 

But that second to last Sunday in September, Draco's off with Blaise and Pansy and Harry's at home, trying to figure out what he's doing wrong. He understands that most of the failed attempts at telling Draco he loves him are due to spur of the moment things he can never hope to control. It still doesn't change the fact that Harry loves Draco, wants to tell him, and hasn't found a way to do it. So, he puts the Internet to good use and goes on a hunt for advice from various websites.

He types in "how to tell someone you love them" into the search bar and goes through three different websites with advice that ranges from, _don't, it's too soon,_ , to, _if he loves you, he'll tell you first and then you can say, "me too."_ Harry's gone through three pages of results, has almost convinced himself that Draco doesn't love him and that Harry's simply reading too much into his own feelings, when he finally finds something useful. 

It's a webpage with a white background and black text under rainbow-coloured titles. The first one reads, "Ten Ways to Show Someone You Love Them Without Saying It." It lists, among other things, making time for them, spending time with them, doing things they love, and spending time with their family. Harry rereads number four on the list twice to make sure he caught it right and seriously considers just forgetting all about it. He doesn't think there's anything wrong with waiting until Draco says it first. But the feeling only lasts a moment and then Harry resigns himself to spending a lot more time with Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy.

-

The first things Harry does Monday morning are clear his afternoon and harass Bartholomew from the Department for Intoxicating Substances, until he promises to send Draco home early. 

By the time Draco makes it home, Harry's already laid out Hermione's old cellphone and the handbook that came with it. The model is from 2002, a thick rectangular brick with a screen that slides out and upside down. It'll even make phone calls for the rest of the month because Hermione had switched phone companies before her month was up. 

There's also an iPod Nano that Harry borrowed from Dean and some headphones he'd picked up on his way from work. The little white rectangle holds all of Dean's favourite songs and though Dean hadn't said anything, Harry's been extra careful with it. He knows Draco will like it because ever since he'd had to give Hermione her iPod Shuffle back, he'd been contemplating getting something for himself.

"What's all this?" Draco asks when he steps through the fireplace and sees the things on the table. 

"Sit," Harry says, remembering number ten on the list—doing things for them—and taking Draco's cloak. "Why don't you start reading the Sidekick handbook and I'll order takeout."

"Sidekick?" Draco asks, looking at the iPod and the phone with interest. "Is this why you had Bartholomew kick me out early? He wasn't pleased, Harry, and if I'm terribly bullied for the rest of the year, you will be hearing about it."

"Who's going to bully you?" Harry calls from the kitchen. "You'd just scare them away."

He hears Draco sniff as he orders their food. But by the time Harry goes back into the living room, Draco's already sitting on the sofa, turning the cellphone on and off. 

"Ask me whatever you want," Harry says, watching as Draco slides open the phone screen over and over. "Today we can look at all the Muggle technology you want and I'll answer all your questions."

Draco narrows his eyes. "Even the ones about the Internet?" he asks. 

Harry grins. "Especially the ones about the Internet."

"All right," Draco says, leaning back. "What did you do?"

All in all, it takes a good portion of the afternoon to convince Draco that Harry's done nothing he feels he needs to apologize for. After, Harry has to explain to Draco how to send a text message and neither of them is any closer to declaring their love for each other. But, Harry supposes, that's just how these things sometimes go. 

-

Harry does his best to be polite to Narcissa the next time they have lunch. It happens on the last Saturday of September, when the weather's decided that rain would put them all in a good mood. They're not able to eat outside, even though they always eat outside when Harry visits with Draco. But Harry gets through it in one piece, doesn't use his coffee spoon for the Tarte Tatin, and manages to scrape by a moderately successful evening.

Draco goes home with him and as they're hanging their cloaks to dry, Harry thinks of the list and says, as casually as he can, "That was fun. We should have lunch with your mother again tomorrow. Your dad too, if he's up for it." 

Draco stops midway to hanging up his cloak and doesn't move. Harry watches him, trying to figure out what's happening. He senses something went wrong and when Draco turns to him with a carefully cool expression, he knows something's up.

"Are you breaking up with me?" Draco asks. 

"What?" Harry asks, confused about what he's done to make Draco think he wants to end things. "Why would you ask me that?"

Draco frowns. "You're being too nice," he says. "Oddly so. Not the usual kind nonsense we both know is annoyingly you. But a sort of strange kindness."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asks. 

"You bought me a cellphone," Draco says.

"It was free. Hermione wasn't using it anymore."

"You keep cleaning up after me, even though we both know you're rubbish at cleaning spells."

"I wanted to do something nice," Harry says, feeling oddly cornered. 

He'd never imagined that asking to spend time with Draco's parents would lead to this particular conversation, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. If Draco had suddenly decided that he wanted to start doing chores without magic, Harry would have been immediately suspicious. There are things neither of them will do unless they absolutely have to and, for Harry, that's willingly spending time with Lucius Malfoy.

"Why do you keep asking me if I need space?" Draco asks now, his cloak still in his hand. 

Harry has to fix this but as he stares at Draco's increasingly suspicious expression, he can't think of anything except the truth. Then, Harry tries to wrap his head around explaining the days that he's spent failing to tell Draco that he loves him and it seems foolish. There's no reason for Draco to know yet. Not when Harry can't even figure out something as simple as, "I love you."

In the end, he just shrugs helplessly at Draco. "I just didn't want to assume that you'd want to spend all your time with me," Harry says.

"So you don't want to spend less time with me then?"

"Draco, what are you talking about?" Harry asks, throwing his hands up. "That's not what I'm saying. I just want to make sure you're happy."

"Oh," Draco says, finally hanging up his cloak. "In that case, be clearer next time."

"I will," Harry says, kicking his shoes off, glad that the conversation seems to be moving onto safer territory. "If only to avoid whatever this was."

"It was an argument," Draco says, heading into the flat. "And I am by the way."

"Are what?" Harry asks, annoyed that he's, once again, managed to mangle things up.

Draco stops at the end of the hallway, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Happy," he says as he heads deeper into the flat. 

Harry watches Draco walk away, and he supposes that the night isn't so bad after all.

-

"So tell me again exactly what you did?" Hermione asks for the third time. 

They're at Ron and Hermione's flat, Harry on Ron's favourite armchair, Hermione and Ron to the left on him on the sofa. Ron's doing his best to seem like he isn't laughing at Harry, though his coughing fit every time Hermione asks Harry a question, gives him away.

"I looked up ways to tell someone you love them," Harry says, knowing what it sounds like and knowing that explaining won't make it better. "And before that, I wrote him a poem."

"A poem?" Ron asks, his entire expression brightening as he looks at Harry. "Let's hear it then."

"Why exactly did you do this?" Hermione asks, pointedly ignoring Ron and passing Harry a cup of tea.

It's good strong black tea with milk and sugar. The proper way to enjoy tea and when Harry makes a comment about it, Ron agrees. 

"So this poem—" Ron starts.

Harry pulls out the piece of parchment that holds his only attempt at poetry and hands it to Ron. Hermione snatches the parchment away and turns back to Harry.

"You were saying?" she asks.

Harry toys with the cuff of his sleeve. "He's...that is to say...I don't...I've never told anyone I was in love with them before," he falters, looks down at his teacup.

He can feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck and he doesn't know why it's so hard to just say what he feels. Harry trusts Ron and Hermione, knows they won't laugh. If there's anywhere he should be able to speak openly, it's there with them. 

"Mate," Ron says finally, leaning towards Harry. "It really isn't that hard. Just tell him."

"Ron's right," Hermione says. "It's not meant to be something complicated. If you love him, you love him."

Harry buries his head in his hands and sighs. "You don't understand," he says, his words muffled. "I tried that already."

"And?" Hermione asks, gently. 

"It didn't quite go as planned," Harry says, feeling mortified and not exactly knowing why. 

"Because?" Ron prompts.

"Because I asked a waitress to write it on a cake and then I ruined that. One time he actually fell asleep. And then there was the time that—"

Harry stops but he can tell it's too late because Ron's leaning forward and Hermione looks concerned but curious. 

"The time that what?" Ron asks.

Harry looks at them, at Ron's sympathetic expression and at Hermione, who looks as though she has many things to say and is keeping quiet out of friendly respect. Harry considers how they'd react if he told them about the time in the bedroom, thinks, _fuck it,_ and tells them anyway. 

"Wow," Ron says, after a moment. "Well, your first mistake was trying to tell him during sex."

"What?" Harry asks, midway through pulling at his hair. 

"Never say I love you during sex," Ron says. "Everyone knows that. Too much adrenaline. Not enough space to think."

"I—" Harry stops, considers what Ron's saying. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Ron says, patting Harry on the knee. 

"And stop taking poetry advice from Ginny," Hermione says, looking up from the little piece of parchment she'd taken from Ron earlier. "Also, you really should stop doing what people on the Internet tell you to do. You know better than that."

"It looked official," Harry says. "There were a lot of titles. And you try saying no to Ginny."

Ron snorts and Hermione rolls her eyes. 

"Listen," she says, "All of this is much simpler than you're making it out to be. Just go home, find Draco, and tell him."

"Just like that?" Harry asks, refusing to believe it can be that easy. 

"Just like that," Hermione says. 

"Well," Ron says, settling back onto the sofa. "Now that that's done, how's about you show me this poem?"

**\+ 1. _it's the simple things_**

They finally figure out the Azkaban situation at the beginning of October. Harry does a lot of running around trying to get departments to give up staff and Hermione and Ron do the same. In the end, they manage to scrape together enough people so that there's no need to ever consider the Dementors again. Bartholomew puts up a fight, and Harry has to remind himself that an outright duel with the man would just unnecessarily postpone the third meeting from hell. 

Hermione does a lot of official note-taking. Harry doesn't say that he still has no idea why they even need the Department of Intoxicating Substances at a meeting about Azkaban. Bartholomew makes a lot of snide comments. And Draco avoids Harry's eye the entire meeting. All in all, it's not a bad outcome and though they run past regular office hours, by the time everyone heads home, Harry feels like they've accomplished something. 

Hermione and Ron are the last to leave and Harry can tell right away that Ron's up to something. He watches as Hermione shakes her head, but Ron turns to Harry, winks and says, "Hey Malfoy, have I ever told you how your hair kind of reminds me of chickpeas?"

Harry says nothing, does nothing, pretends that he heard nothing. Ron, the bastard, looks like he's about to burst into laughter. To his credit, he keeps a straight face at Draco's offended look. 

"I should hope not, Weasley," Draco says, drawing himself up to his full height. 

"Oh, well, just a thought," Ron says, shrugging. 

Harry watches him go, fighting back laughter. At the door, Ron turns and waves. Harry shakes his head but waves back until Hermione finally drags Ron away from the door. 

"What was that about?" Draco asks.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Ron," he says by way of explanation. 

"Weasley," Draco agrees solemnly. "What are we doing for dinner tonight?"

"I don't know," Harry says, packing up his quills and the parchment with his notes. "How do you feel about curry?"

"We could," Draco says. "Or we could go back to The Pheasant."

"Impossible," Harry says. "You need a reservation. Too posh to take people without reservations."

Draco nods as he helps Harry put his things in his satchel. "Yes, well, we might already have one," he says.

Harry gives him a questioning look and Draco shrugs. 

"We didn't really get to enjoy dessert last time," he says. "I thought it might be something you'd enjoy. Especially because you have mentioned that you like romantic gestures every once in a while."

"You don't," Harry says, watching Draco carefully. 

"No, I don't, but I can stomach a night of good food and something pretty to look at."

Harry laughs. "Am I supposed to be something pretty?"

Draco laughs, the sound carrying in the empty room. It's happy and carefree and it makes Harry want to kiss him. 

"Hey," he says instead. "Thank you."

"Don't think this a selfless act," Draco says, walking towards the door. "I do intend to use this to my advantage for as long as I'm able to get away with it. I'm going to demand very thorough forms of payment, in a variety of positions."

Harry watches him go, helplessly. "Merlin knows why I love you," he says, shaking his head. "But I do."

It takes a moment for Harry to register exactly what he said. When it does, he figures, in for a knut, in for a galleon, and waits for Draco to turn before stepping across the room to stand in front of him. This time, Harry's sure there are no headphones to get in the way, no movies to lull Draco to sleep. 

He takes a deep breath, grabs Draco's face, and says, "I love you."

Draco's smile is blinding between them. "I love you too," he says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Harry's lips.

Harry pulls him in, lets the relief at finally getting the words out wash over him. He's half-laughing into their kisses but Draco just throws an arm around his neck and pulls him closer, kisses him again and again. Until Harry's sure they're going to be late to dinner. 

But, really, by then he doubts either of them is too worried about it.

**Author's Note:**

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